Pax Britannia: Black Rebel
by Tikiboot
Summary: An exiled son and former prince seeks out the vengeance he's been yearning for, but watch as his revenge sets into motion events that will forever shape not only his destiny, but those around him as well. The threads of Fate are starting to intertwine and the questions of who will be bound up, who will be set free, and who will hold the threads becomes vastly intriguing.


Sup, y'all. Quick story that I might screw around with. Did this for a Media Writing assignment. Weird. Whatever, if it gets me a good grade I'm down. Will mix in characters and things from others shows, but for right now strictly Code G. Review and enjoy.

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><p>The air was cool, crisp and it chilled breath as it left from chapped lips dry from cold and fatigue. The pale sun that had been climbing all day had finally found its zenith in the dark blue sky, but it's face was covered by a veil of clouds. It bore witness to the two armies that were assembling upon this dried out rye field somewhere on the Rugii plain, within its green stalks scattered dots of purple were here and there. The cornflowers painted a picture of serenity as they rolled briskly in the wind, their methodical back and forth mesmerizing those that saw. Yet the peaceful image was soon to leave this place. As the Britannian forces waited patiently for their enemy, terrible thoughts and the anxiety of battle crept crept into their minds.<p>

Three legions - eighteen thousand men, all bedecked in lorica hamata; carrying large scutum shields and trusty gladii which hung by their sides. They gazed out at the far hill where the banging drums were coming closer, and the voices and shouts and screams of the northern tribesmen were getting louder. Barbarian chaos was edging its way towards the Britannians, frightening the legionaries in the first few ranks. It had always unsettled Britannians of how their Northern cousins lived: primal, ancient, devoid of the art and culture that was customary in civilized society, but these men lived apart. When Eowyn was building his kingdom and fulfilling his dream the men of Britannia followed him, where as these men - the Northlanders - were different.

The Northlanders would rather live by an antiquated sense set of tribalistic honor - dying to protect freedoms they value selfishly, than learn to live with the sense and sensibility of Britannian lifestyle. They think that Britannia seeks to take away their freedom, but what is their freedom? Is it the freedom to plunder, pillage and raid deep into Britannian lands, killing their people and burning their homes? If so then 'yes', Britannia will take away their freedom, only so as to protect their own. They would not bow in fear to these uncouth warriors. The Senate fools itself by making treaties and bandying talks believing the Northlanders would listen, but all their efforts ended in naught else but a slight hiccup in growing tensions.

It was only expected. As the Britannian kingdom began expanding itself northward, violence began to increase. At first it was a stolen cow here, a herd of sheep that went missing there, but like ripples in a lake these actions only seem to get bigger as they flow. Soon it wasn't just the farm animals that were being taken, but entire farmsteads. Farmsteads gave way to villages, villages to small towns, and now it was the sacking of an entire Britannian garrison positioned to guard a road in the Frost Way. No treaty would work now, no amount of talking could deal with this.

For the Northlanders the worth in words is very little. Only in action was there any sense. This childlike exuberance for wanton violence is what necessitated the Agamemnon, Gallica, and Hispanorum legions to be assembled , and march forth to the northern provinces. The Northlanders will now meet the biting steel that Britannia brings, and it was far colder than any winter these people have ever known. And it wouldn't just be with the sword, but in shackles, cages, and chains too. Britannia can make use of these tools as well for those that seek to threaten her right to dominance. Let's see what the Northlanders would do when they realize that in fighting for their freedoms, they would lose far more than they could have imagined. It's sounded terribly violent, but in this world - where life is cruel and the men in it likewise - why should war be any different. The Northlanders have mistaken Britannian leniency as weakness, their laws as trivial, and their civilization as arrogant; but in their civilization there is culture, in law there is order, and in leniency perhaps an understanding of peaceBut peace was for the weak. At least that was one thing that the young Britannian commander, with his steely gaze and flowing main of chestnut brown hair, had in common with the barbarous horde.

Sitting atop his sturdy white warhorse the young man looked out over his three legions arranged in the triplex acies - the checkerboard pattern that is a staple in Britannian warfare. His plumed helmet with its horsehair crest was dyed a dark shade of blue, and around his cuirass - which was fastened in a ripped set of muscles - was a blue toga adorned with a golden fray. Amongst his cavalry regiment and his unit commanders that stood around him he was by far the most striking. Muscular arms that bore the scars of past wounds running up and down their length, a strong-set jaw that most likely caged a booming voice, and a piercing gaze; he looked like a figure from the old myths come alive.

A strong, imposing man that seemed carved out of granite, a warrior through and through, and definitely not one that would benefit from peace - a hypocrisy in of itself he believed. In the end peace always devolve down into this: two armies comprised of men who hated each other, who will maim and kill till the other is dead. Then there will be peace.

At least the Northerners have it right in some sense. There is no peace in words, words are nothing more than pretty little things that clever men can twist and turn to their own advantage. Words are niceties that are only good to those that can afford them, but here with the soldiers and the warriors words there was no time for talk. Strength now was the only thing that mattered.

In these dark days which have found Britannia only the strong were able to survive, and the young Legatus looked nothing but the epitome of strength. For he was surely a survivor.

In the distance far away from the field, atop a knoll that rolled down into the valley, but was still high enough that offered ample view of the legions, a number of hooded riders stood. Small, insignificant, and mysterious they gazed down, their cloaks flapping in the wind and hiding their faces to make their identities unintelligible, but the dark scarlet cloth of their garments were noticeable enough to let all who saw them know that this was a royal escort. The young Legatus had taken notice of them a while ago, but refrained from mentioning it to his men. They needn't be worried by the presence of his elder brother who followed them from Pendragon.

"The men are becoming worried," came the voice of the legatus' second-in-command, the Legatus Legionis Flavius Attilius Ahala.

"Cowards," came the cavalier response of Bismark Waldstein Galahadus, esteemed though brash cavalry officer of the legion.

He was situated just behind the legatus to the left, but was right next to Flavius. A stark contrast between Flavis, a grizzled soldier who was unbothered by his ragged appearance: red cloak stained with mud, a bronzed bushy beard showing signs of grey, and a bronze cuirass that seemed more appropriate for another century. He did keep his hair short though, styled in the Reman fashion. It showed the old warrior's background.

But Bismark was neither Reman nor old, and kept his hair long in the Britannian one. The dark locks coming down, almost giving a hint of being a dark blue if seen in a certain light. Bismark would always vehemently refute the idea that he dyed his hair like some pompous aristocrat in Pendragon, but there still jokes made to this. Regardless, he was a proud youth bedecked in polished silver scale armor and looked every bit as intimidating and arrogant as his legatus, for Bismark was one finest cavalry men in the kingdom, who made his living on the battlefields and garnered renown for it. He could've dyed his any hair any color, because if any man was brave enough to jape at him then it would be at their expense.

"It's not that their cowards," Flavius replied. "It's just they're waiting. Waiting makes a soldier think of home, of the family he left behind and how he might not come to see them again. It unnerves any. man to stand and wait for his death. They're not immortal."

The brash cavalry officer laughed and said, "Are you always this romantic before a battle, Flavius?"

"That's enough, Bismark," went a feminine voice belonging to one positioned nearest the legatus to his left. She had a large crested helmet, almost like the one that the commander had, except hers was more elegantly made. Her horsehair plume was longer, reaching down to the small of her back, and dyed with alternating stripes of blood red and cobalt black. The helmet was made of sterling silver and the crest which the plume rested was fashioned into the image of a prancing horse. The top half of her face was masked. A short, red cape flapped behind her, and it only reached to where her shoulder blades were. There sat two leather pauldrons which framed a silver cuirass meant to accentuate her feminine qualities.

"Flavius has the right of it, waiting for death is unbearable." The beauty remarked as she looked out over the field. "Oh, how many mothers will lose sons today?"

The question was to no one in particular, but a stern voice responded, "They'll be fine." The young commander finally spoke and the words came out as cold and taciturn as his countenance. On the wind the sound of drums was getting louder. The rhythmic sound of marching feet - which at one point seemed so distant, now showed itself in the dozens of waving banners Northlanders carried, poking out from behind the hill overlooking the plain.

Well, they weren't really banners, more like scraps of cloth attached to spears. Some had the writing of the Northmen upon them - the crude, runic script saying gods know to their heathen gods- and pictures of said deities, animalistic and ancient, looking out over the massive host. The entirety of the opposing hill soon was engulfed by the large mass of the horde. Upon seeing the Britannian legions before them, they stopped and proceeded to work up their frenzy which they had been savoring since their long march from the Frost Way.

"Well, they seem excited." Went Bismark as he saw the enemy host gather. "'Bout time they got here too. I was starting to think of the things I haven't done and the family I might not see again, right Flavius?"

Flavius paid no heed to the haughty firebrand of a soldier and scanned the field. Surely this couldn't be right. There were too many. The reports said that thirty thousand screamers were bearing down from the forts in Aquilonia Superior, but what he saw here was more than what was reported. He could make out the standards of the Halbards, Frizae, Wodanoz, Heruski, Matii, the Tulingicum, the Swuelonds; Harbudii, Normoi, Belgika, Ronz, and Skand. There were more but Flavius figured it would be fruitless in trying to count them all, lest he become more disenchanted with his chances of surviving to see tomorrow. Also, his eyes were not as sharp as they used to be.

"Reports only said thirty thousand had broken through the Frost Way; there's at least sixty thousand there screaming at us." Flavius said.

"Tch, damned scouts. Fuckers can't count now?" Bismark remarked.

"...There's so many" Came the woman. She sounded amazed at the sight of so many warriors gathered out in the field to meet for battle. This was certainly the largest one she'd ever been a part of since she'd become decurion of the cavalry.

Flavius looked over the their legatus to see if he could glean any sort of reaction from him, but there was none. Instead he stared out like a statue with the same grim expression on his face that he had when he donned his armor. Flavius wondered if this was fear that he was seeing in their young commander. It wouldn't be unnatural or uncalled for. This was certainly more than they bargained for. A paltry force of three legions couldn't hope to overcome a force more three times its size. They needed to pull back.

"Legatus, with your permission?" Flavius said leaning in to get his general's attention. The general said nothing, but he didn't stop Flavius either. Flavius took this as a sign to continue.

"We were already outnumbered to begin with, but this is too much. If we are defeated here than there's a good chance that many of the northern provinces will be lost," Flavius said trying to state his case in the most reasonable way possible, "if we were to withdraw back to Vivende however, we might be able to hold them off."

"Withdraw!? You dare speak of retreat when the enemy is right there in front of us? So we can tuck tails and hide in Vivende!" Bismark interjected.

"Not hide, hold out, you fool!" Flavius rounded on Bismark. Turning back to the legatus he continued, "Hold out until reinforcements arrive. Send word out. Have the southern legions muster here as fast as they can. Vivende has walls - high ones - and is one of the last cities the Northlanders will cross before heading south. You will have your battle, " Flavius said turning back to Bismark, "but I'd much rather prefer it where our chance of victory is best."

"But what about the other settlements in the area: Aquae Alamania, Lodos, and Caernarvon? We can't just abandon them? Not at least before they are sent word to evacuate" Went the female officer.

"My Lady I don't think we have the time." Replied Flavius.

Bismark didn't like the thought of leaving at all. He thought it was an affront to his "knightly honor", but many of the other officers that gathered with the Legatus had the way of Flavius. The enemy were too many, their own army too few, and there was little time to be spared for their own departure if they were to make Vivende, let alone sending word for the other settlements to start evacuating people south. Some of the more chivalric members of the party like the lady officer didn't take kindly to that either. To them they believed it was their duty to stay and protect the mothers, fathers, son, daughters; the families that opted to stay. As the heated exchange went on, the young general still looked as he did before: calm, cool, and collected. Yes, he was a survivor this one. He had a fire in his eyes and a steel in his heart that set him apart from most and it was times like these where he would instill that in others as well.

"They hate us," his voice came out, quieting his counselors and captains about him. All listened when this man spoke.

"They hate us because we're stronger. That is the truth of it. Why do you think they've decided to bring such unwieldy numbers? It's not because of the plunder, not because of the loot, but because they wish to wipe us from the face of this earth and they're afraid. Afraid they don't have the strength to do it on equal terms." He turned to face his commanders present and they could feel the growing presence of their commander grow stronger with every accusing glare he threw at them.

"I will not run." He said to Flavius, to which the older man sighed.

"Nor will I act a fool." This he directed to Bismark. Bismark couldn't meet his gaze.

"This is Britannian land and I will not yield a single scrap more of it to invaders," the strong legatus said, "but I will take everything from them. Here. Now. When all our enemies are gathered together in one place. Flavius, you say that if Vivende falls then all of Britannia will open up to them, but if **they** fall then the North opens up to me. We can secure our borders to the Frost Way and beyond. We can push the Northlanders so far up to their mountain caves that they'll shudder to see the sun again." He threw his arm to point to the Northlander army, "That is the truth of it. They take as big a risk to come down here, as we are to have met. They are fearful creatures that hate what we are, what we bring. As they should. It is only natural for the weak to hate the strong, but minnows will not frighten a shark."

None could question his fiery resolve. They knew that once he was set to do something they would be hard pressed to change his mind. Normally, it was in these moments where they would find their courage, but the this was different. How could their pitiful few stand against the force of nature that accumulated before them? But their commander was adamant in his decision. "Be strong with me, brothers. Trust in me and I will make sure our enemies will pay tenfold for every Britannian that falls here today."

It was in this that the Britannians found their resolve for battle, steeling themselves by the courage shown by their exalted general, yet the daunting task of driving off their enemy still seemed a dubious feat to them. Their enemies chants rumbled echoed across the sky, their growing bloodlust coming to a head in their hateful shouts. The front of their line would lurch back and forth, threatening the charge, but every time it would advance the tribesmen would pull back.

And all the while atop the hill where the small company of riders stood, a small figure at the forefront gazed down at the two armies. His head was cloaked but it could not contain the long, platinum blonde hair which came down from his hood in two strips which framed his youthful face.

"Pontifex Valerius, please. He will be fine", pleaded the priest next to the boy. The Priests of Eowyn, garbed in the wine red robes of their order, stood vigil over their legions, and they were lead there by the wisest of their company, the Pontifex of their order. Valerius Vitalis, a youth who had found immortality at the age of ten, would seem a child to anyone who would notice, yet his appearance did not hide that the air of the mystical hung about about him. His scarlet eyes gave credence to that, and they were transfixed on the field in front him.

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><p>The Legatus acted fast in order to prepare his army for the battle about to transpire. His advisors still had the look of fear in their eyes when he had told them of his stratagem, incredulous at what he was proposing to them. Even in the few soldiers Charles had saw in the back ranks, men who would be paramount to his plan. They were relayed the message through their various optios and centurions who hurriedly got their men into battle readiness. The army aligned itself for the checkerboard pattern to be set up three lines deep, yet to match the line of the enemy Charles had to compensate the integrity of his center to strengthen his flanks. From there, the left and right were the customary three lines and protected by the cavalry. His center on the other hand was precariously thin. It was stretched out to form one continuos line. That is where Charles would be, to oversee any breaks that might occur and to make sure his strategy would be well acted out. Next to him was Flavius and his own cavalry there to support.<p>

"The centurions have relayed their orders. Every man is to stay close to their standards and not break ranks, as per your order. You sure you you don't want to be on a horse?" Came Flavius who now donned his helmet. It was an older style type of Apulo Corinthia, that had two red feather and a long red crest denoting his patrician status; two long cheekpieces connected around his outer jaw, pressing his beard uncomfortably against his chin.

"No need. This is going to be a fight. Simple as that. Would do the men well to see me with them. Why do you insist on wearing that antique?" The Legatus asked.

"Because I like to be reminded that I'm old." Flavius tersely replied, to which made his friend chuckle a little.

"You're right, you have gotten older." There was a moment of silence before the Legatus asked "What made you want to come here, Flavius? I half expected you to throw me out of your house when I asked you. So what was it, eh?"

"When you came to me I had every intention of turning you away. I was more than willing to let the boys march off without me. For once civilian life was suiting me. Sitting in my sun-kissed villa, surrounded by children and grandchildren, spending the rest of my days with my lovely wife Drusilla. Gods! She was happy to have me around the house now."

The Legatus gave a hint of smirk at Flavius when he said that, but the old soldier waved that idea off

"Don't get ahead of yourself, she only wants me to do the chores." Flavius said in an exasperated tone.

"Well, 'that' is a chore too." The Legatus said with a quick smirk.

"As you say I've gotten older. 'That' is not as easy as it once was." Flavius nodded which drew a slight laugh from the young general.

**BaROOO! BaROOOO! BaROOOOOOOOOOO! **went the blaring sound of the barbarian battlehorns. The cohorts had jut settled into place when they sounded. Both men looked out at the oncoming enemy that prepared its slow, steady march down the hill. The lines in the army stiffened and the air grew colder.

"When you asked me to come with you, to stand by you one last time, you want to know the truth of why I came, eh?" Flavius asked.

The Legatus said nothing, but kept his gaze at the oncoming Northlanders. Flavius continued.

"Your eyes," Flavius said.

The Legatus turned back to his friend and gave him an odd look. Flavius laughed at this because it sounded as insane to him as it did for the young general.

"Your eyes. By Eowyn! Something in them made me want to come. I know that sounds insane, and maybe I am starting to lose it, but something in your eyes told me that if I didn't come up here with you that I was going to regret it for the rest of my days." Flavius said, an air of uncertainty lingering in his voice.

"You saw that in my eyes?" The Legatus looked at his old friend and knew the uncertainty of that moment had been eating away ever since he left home. But Flavius was a man of honor and the Legatus knew he wouldn't turn back on his word, even though with each passing day his heart ached and the homesicknesses could was evident on his face.

"Fate has a funny way of pulling people to and fro in life. Sometimes it is not of their own accord, but in the end we always end up right where we're meant to be." The general consoled.

Flavius nodded at the halfhearted attempt at trying to ease his concerns.

"My wife thinks I'm here because I'm an idiot."

The Legatus laughed at that. The rumbling of the ground grew greater, the chanting of the enemy in their native tongues becoming more audible as they got closer.

"Then we'll be idiots together then here and in Hel" The Legatus said

Flavius tugged on his reigns a little tighter, making his horse lurch backward a bit. It was time to take his place on the right wing of the center, just before where the Lady Marianne and Bismark were situated. He would keep order there.

"Oh no, not in Hel. I plan to stay alive a little longer. Even if it means during chores around the house like some slave."

Before Flavius was about to ride off the Legatus stopped him and offered his arm to his old friend. Flavius grasped it in the customary fashion of soldiers.

"Stand with honor, Flavius Attilius Ahala" The Emperor said to him.

"Fight with courage. Tch, and Bismark says I'm the one that gets sappy." And with that Flavius took his Legionis cavalry and sped off down the line.

The Northlanders kept themselves in surprisingly good order as they made their way to the half-way point between the two armies; their discipline showing they had learned from their past experiences with the Britannian legions. This fight was going to be a lot harder than anticipated. The Legatus could see that in the front ranks instead of the brash and usually naked warriors of the past, hardy men that were adorned with heavy armor and strong shields formed a semblance of a shield wall. From his spot in the center, the mass of warriors seemed to be a daunting obstacle to overcome, but the Legatus was confident. He needed to be.

In the center he had placed the legion that he had built from his own personal wealth - the Gallica - to take the brunt of the enemy charge. The symbol of two bulls interlocking their horns in combat shown from their banners, showing their enemies who it was they faced. Legionaries from this legion were the veterans of many Charles's past campaigns: the War of Internecine, the Siege of Toro, the Emblem of Blood Incident. War had touched the men of this legion and they were not afraid of it. Young, strong, and full of spirit, Charles counted on them and their discipline to win the day. Everything needed to be flawless.

**BaROOOO ****BaROOOO BaROOOOOOOOOO!** The sound of the Northlanders horns came. It caused the tribesmen to lurch forward and taunt their enemies. Some of them even ventured out and taunted the Britannian legionaries to draw forth and do battle one-on-one. Yet no matter the level of coaxing, none could get any of the Britannians to forget their discipline. Taught to forgo any such indulgences that would cater to personal glory, the legion prided strength in numbers over individual glory. The Legatus took this as a time to address his men. Walking up between the II and III cohorts, the Legatus struck an imposing figure to his men clad in his polished armor; he looked to be the god of war himself come down to earth.

Raising his fist to the men of the Gallica, he spoke: "Men of Britannia! What fortunate circumstances be this! Our Senate has just mete out another peace treaty with the Northlanders!", a few laughs from the legionaries broke the tension that was building up.

"Fortunately, we've brought our own peace treaty with us; it's the eighteen thousand strong army of the Agamemnon, Hispanorum, and Gallica. And we bring quills!" Unsheathing his sword, the legionaries all laughed at that. Good. That should help assuage a little of their fears. "The Northlanders have decided to gather all at once. What better convenience it is for us, for now we don't have to waste our time hunting in caves and skulking in forests to find these bastards, and do away with them in proper fashion. Be not afraid of these numbers. Only cowards need quantity to overcome obstacles, but I would rather lead an army of a dozen men from you - the Gallica - than an entire horde of Northlanders" The soldiers cheered and Charles made it so to catch each every soldiers gaze as they looked up at him.

Behind, the tumult of the horde was preparing to charge. He could feel it.

"Men I will make it plain: they wish to kill you, kill you and make their way south to Britannia - to your homes. They seek to visit your wives, your children, your mothers, your fathers, your bastards and whores. They seek to march there and take EVERYTHING that you hold dear, but I ask you: Will you let that happen?"

A resounding cry of "No" came up out of the ranks from his soldiers. The Britannians banged the pilla they held in on their scutums, joining their clamor with that of the enemy.

"Victory is not assured, but know this: With every dead Northlander you take, it saves one Britannian life. Maybe that life be your wife's or your child's," and he made emphasis on this last part, "or even yours. Men! With every stroke of your sword, the chance of you surviving today grows, so the way I see it kill. KILL! And kill some more" The Legatus' words reached every man in his vicinity, so loud was his voice. "You are strong. You are proud. You are BRITANNIA and I say unto you, "Obey me! And you shall have victory!"

The Legatus's eyes burned bright amongst the dismal lighting of the day, and the men shouted back their resolve to their general even stronger than before.

The man was fire incarnate as he spoke, his words like hot brands able to scorch the very soul. He could temper men's hearts and forge them into hard wrought iron. Many who would see him would no doubt believe that he was the strongest man among them, and some wondered if there wasn't a hint of the divine about his person. They knew of how the gods touched his brother Valerius at such a young age, so then it wouldn't be wrong to assume that the divine had touched The Legatus as well.

Rejoining his position amongst his men in the Ist cohort, The Legatus placed himself right next to the Eagle standard of his legion. It stood out prominently from the first ranks, golden and shining with the sheen of its pre-battle polish. An Eagle was the most prized possession of any Legion. It symbolized the honor and pride of the Britannian legion. All those who would stand amongst it were obligated to live up to the principles it represented. However, the standard itself also shown like a beacon to all their enemies, for it was widely known that if the Eagle should fall, then the blow to morale would be devastating; a legion losing an eagle was a disgrace. They say the fighting around an Eagle standard was always fiercest, and Charles standing right beside the signifer who carried it spoke volumes. He would forgo personal safety and leaf from the front like the warrior kings of old. Upon seeing their Emperor make such a gesture the men cheered. Charles's own personal guard dismounted and joined the front ranks as well. Someone had brought Charles's large oval shield made from thick oak, and covered in dark-blue leather, over to him.

**BaROOOOO-ROOOO-ROOOOOOOOOO!**

The impetuous of their charge was remarkable. The multitudes charging made the ground quake beneath Charles's feet. Amazing how none of the legionaries to not have turned and run the moment they saw the wave coming towards them, but they held firm like a stone. Charles unsheathed his long spatha and made a signal for his men to make ready.

"Cohorts, PILA!" He said raising his sword above his head.

A trumpet blast from his position echoed the order that was sent throughout the entire line. The signal was repeated a ways down from where the general stood. Behind him movement signified the legionaries prepping to throw their deadly missiles at the enemy. Thy young general could feel the points of pila behind his back, and for a split second, hoped he wouldn't be clipped by one as his men would let them fly. It wouldn't have been the first time an accident such as that were to occur. Officers in the front had more reason to fear death from behind in the wake of a poorly thrown pila, than anything the enemy could do to them, and it made the legatus wonder of the tale it would make to hear of such a blunder. His brother certainly wouldn't take kindly to that.

A Britannian legionnaire carried with him two pila: a heavier one, made with an oaken shaft and a hard iron point, and a lighter, shorter pila intended to be thrown quickly after the first volley. When both were thrown they could halt an enemy charge cold, skewering enemy soldiers and pinning themselves into their shields. Because of the fragile iron shanks that comprised the tips, these javelins bent upon impact, making them near impossible to be taken out in the heat of battle. If a man were so unlucky as to have this in his shield, then it would be useless. It would have to be discarded, and the warrior would carry on defenseless. It was such a simple, yet effective tool of war.

"Hold!" The charge was coming, they were only 100 meters Legatus made sure that none moved without his signal; centurions made sure the men held their discipline.

"Hold!" Closing fast, the enemy was at thirty-three metres now. The impetuous of their charge was apparent as they closed the distance and did so fast. The best distance the pila could be used was at about 15 meters.

The legionaries faces held firm in spite of the terror that was bearing down upon them; the onslaught that was sure to cut many of them down must have caused an itinerant anxiety amongst them, but they held fast. Their discipline and training making them as solid as the mountains, their pride and confidence into perfectly honed killing machines. They had to be. If they were to live, if they were to find victory, if it would be because of Britannian military austerity, not pompous Northlander passion.

Twenty-seven meters...Twenty-two..."Hold, men. Steady" Went the centurion next the Legatus. From what he could see, it was a young boy, perhaps younger than most should be when they are given the rank of centurion. A young face, unmarred, save for the hint of a beard on his chin. He looked green, but the Legatus remembered this particular man, for he was a stalwart when it came to the campaigns he had in the past. Gods, what his name again? The Legatus struggled to remember. He made a point to know all the names of the centurions in his army, especially in the Gallica, but at the moment his mind went amiss. Was it Ariovistus? No. Arius? No

Nineteen meters...Sixteen meters... The Legatus primed his hand to give the command, and as soon as the enemy line crossed the threshold of fifteen meters as he judged, he threw his hand down and bellowed the command to loose.

"AUDERE IN DIMITTE!" Went the Legatus's booming call. The centurion relayed the message and called the legionaries to loose their pila. For a moment all the sight a man could see was encapsulated by the dark shafts of the javelins as they were let loose, of them crashing into the front ranks of the Northlanders.

Many died in the initial volley. The Legatus saw one pila thrown with such force and accuracy that it embedded itself in the face of one man, sending his body sprawling backward. Another he saw take one on his shield, stopping him cold in his tracks. He tried to remove the javelin, but the rush of men behind him pushed him down, and he was swept from view. The charge was immediately stopped as the front ranks were decimated as close to six thousand pila ravaged their front, mauling it forming gaps where previously there were none. As this happened men in the back ranks pushed ever onward to meet the legion, ignorant or uncaring for their wounded that littered their path, stepping over them or on them. Many a poor Northlander soul was crushed by the charge of their own army, but all to the Britannians advantage. The stymied charge allowed for the legionaries to prepare their second pila. They too were unleashed with frightening diligence and speed. Another six thousand were loosed all along the lines and they were no less effective than the first. Innumerable Northlanders fell yet again, so strong was the foolishness that they rushed to death.

Many of their banners fell, and for a moment it looked like the Northlanders had lost heart. With their charge faltering, and a good score of them dead before they even engaged, the reluctance to carry through with their violence was apparent. Most halted in fear that there would be another volley of pila thrown at them, with only a few feeling braven enough to reach the shields of the Britannians. These were cut down without much effort. Looking out at them from where he stood, the Legatus wondered if the battle was won before it began, but that was only wishful thinking. He knew there were many more than paltry that were slain. A large Northlander man emerged from the ranks. Brazenly pushing aside those in the front, the Legatus saw this warrior and knew he had to be someone of import. He was tall, taller than any man should ever be, and garbed in the cloak of midnight black fur from a Northland cave bear. It topped his head with the cap still showing the savage expression the bear had when it died. It contrasted greatly with his long, blonde plaited beard that came down into two braids, adorned with a number of brass bells and ringlets

"Feiglinge!" He shouted. The word to the Britannians sounded coarse and foreign, but no doubt it was an urging to get his men forward.

This Northlander had nothing else save for a loincloth, leaving bear his body to show the number of cuts and scars he acquired from years of fighting. He only allowed the protection of a large hexagonal shield adorned with various runic inscriptions and symbols; the sword that he carried was thick bladed, but it was broken in half, the top half of it missing, making for its end to come to a jagged point.

"Schlactung fyand!" Went the battlecry of the large warrior, to which his troops repeated "Schlactung fyand" back. The large warrior thrust first into the no=man's land between the lines and his men followed.

"Rally to me!...Rally to me!" The legatus shouted out to his cohort.

The men readied their shields and prepared to take the brunt of the charge. The Northlander leader with the bearskin cap and blonde beard had closed the distance before any of his fellows did, and the first blow he was struck was only a little ways away from where the Legatus stood. A red mist shot out from where the warrior crashed, but the Legatus had little time to see what was happening there. The tribsemen were coming. Horns blared and shouts rocked the air, the furor of this band became a tangible thing on this earth. Hatred and anger and violence all bottled up into this mass that was bearing down, breaking the ground beneath their feet. The men of the Gallica stood firm, sheilds dug hard into the earth, gladii unsheathed and at their sides. They stood silently, patiently; they were an immovable object in the wake of an unstoppable force.

A resounding crack. A deafening crash. A multitude of screams and curses. Time seemed to stop and all sound was entrapped in this one moment. The **BaROOOOOO **of the Northlander horns still went, while the shouts of centurions for the men to hold were heard all over.

"Steady the line! Hear me-Steady the line!" went the centurion beside the Legatus.

Everything was moving so fast. At first the Legatus didn't know where to turn his head. One tribesmen he saw ran right into the gladius of a soldier next to him. Another ran with such velocity that the Britannian who met him took him on his shield, and sent the Northlander sailing over his head into the ranks behind.

As for the Legatus himself, he was no stranger in fighting in the legion. The first Northlander to come at him, he merely sidestepped and sent him into the back ranks to be taken care of there. Another came at him and swung a sword in a downward stroke, but this left him open. The Legatus brought his knee up, hitting the man in his balls. The Northlander cradled down on his knees and the Legatus sent a swift stroke of his spatha down to deal with him. Another tribesmen who had his body painted on one half a dark red, the other half a bright green, and who was monstrously skinny stabbed at him with a spear. The Frizae warrior charged with his spear, but like swatting a fly the Legatus knocked aside his spear with his shield, and turned him toward the centurion who made quick work of him.

Three dead. Minimal effort. Exactly the way you needed to fight in a melee such as this. Conserving your energy was the single most important thing in a battle, as fatigue was as equally deadly to man than his enemy. The greatest swordsman may know the fanciest moves in the world, but if he was tired after a dozen or so minutes, then what would be the sense. Fights are strange beasts and overcomplicating them with flash is waste of time.

Singers and storytellers talk of battles in the epics that would last for hours, encompassing the entire day; one story had two fighters - the heroes Cernunos and Catalus - fighting for an entire week. Yet, that was both inconceivable and illogical. In Britanian warfare - in a real fight - the average combat lasted mere moments. On occasion some fights sometimes could be dragged out to minutes, but that does not mean the combatants are masters. Instead, all this denotes is the lack of skill both warriors had to kill the other. Truthfully, it was never a good thing to waste energy trying to fight prolonged bouts, considering there were dozens more to fight around you. Killing one man doesn't win a battle. Sometimes it does, but more often than not it is sometimes one nameless man after another.

Another Frizae painted warrior struck out with a sword, but the Legatus's spatha poked the man atop the inner thigh. A small, inconsequential little jab, but vast amounts of blood gushed from the wound. The Frizae fell backwards onto a growing pile of Northlander dead. Another Northlander came, but this time off to the right of the Legatus. With diligence from the legionnaire next to him, the enemy's blow was stopped by his shield. Taking the initiative, the Legatus drove his spatha again into the Northlander's gut. A long, painful scream followed. The Legatus and the legionnaire then resumed their positions.

Steady breathing. Small, shallow movements. Staying in formation. That was what was important in a battle. It was not in challenging your enemies to single combat, to base everything off of the outcome of one moment. Intelligence as much as strength is what makes all the difference. A man who knew what to do in a fight was just as more likely to live than a man who simply knew how to fight. Usually was the case that those men who died first were also the stupidest. Stupidest and less fortunate, but it was these kinds of me who the stories loved to harp on about.

The Legatus caught a blow on his shield. A swordsmen - this time red-headed youth - attacked and slashed with such abandon that the Legatus could nary believe what he was seeing. Didn't this boy know how to fight? His strikes were strong, but they made him unsteady. His hips moved far too much and gave reads as to which way he was going to move. The Legatus waited for the right moment to strike, waiting to see where the opening would come from. The hacking, along with the occasional Northland curse, was given out by the youth, but as soon as the boy lunged forward. *SHINK* The spatha found itself embedded in his neck. The gurgling blood that pooled in his mouth was instantaneous and he fell forward atop the Legatus's shield; the blue leather now stained a dark purple by the blood. It rushed down the opposite side of the Britannian's shield. Unceremoniously he was pushed off in a dead heap.

Battle is a fickle thing in the eyes of those who know nothing about it. For some it is a valiant endeavor; one that is filled heroes, just causes, and morals. For others it's a job. Nothing more, nothing less. A duty to be done and one that is hopefully to be survived. There is no glory to it, no morals, and certainly no heroes. The epics never talk of how a man looks when he dies,or how his face contorts with pain, and how the blood rushes from his wounds. They never talk of how his screams call out for mothers, fathers, loved ones or children he'll never see again; pitiful instances that would make a weak man cringe. The stories nary mention a word about the shit and piss that floods out of a man, of how a field could smell worse than chamberpot filled with diarrhea; but they always make sure to put in a good hint at a love interest or a vision of the divine. Anything to get a few extra denarii when entertaining their patrons.

All around the Legatus instances of calm were taking place along the line. The Northlanders growing tired from their forays to try and break the center, withheld attacking for a quick respite. As was usually the case. A prolonged shoving match would yield little. It was just what the Legatus was waiting for.

"Cohort exi!" The Legatus shouted.

The young centurion next to him, whose name still eluded him, relayed the order to his men. Calling out an order of "Exi", others did the same as well and the trumpet blasts from the line echoed out. At that moment every other cohort in the line began to retreat back. The center line now resembled more the checkerboard pattern that the Britannians had arrayed in before the battle.

"On the banners men! Stay on them!" Went the centurion's order, though not much of it was heard, because the renewal of the Northern screams surged again.

From where the Legatus stood he could see that despite his own battle prowess, his legion was already sporting serious wounds. Dead men littered the front ranks everywhere. A signifer had been lost in one cohort and his staff was being held by a centurion who had to discard his shield. In his own cohort many weren't faring better either. He didn't even realize it, but the soldier that was to his right - the one whom assisted him in downing a Northlander - was dead. Neck was sliced open. In his place a boy stood. Even down the line he noticed that Flavius's own cavalry guard needed to join the fray to stopgap a widening divide. This was not turning out to be good; they hadn't even truly gotten to the meat of the Northlander army yet.

"Du bist ver fluchte Hunde!" cried the giant of a Northlander. Still alive and now sporting another scar upon his chest, he glared out at the Britannian line and shouted another curse at them.

"Bring opp jaevlene!" He cried out which sent a cheer racing amongst the Northlanders.

They charged again into the Britannians and they more forceful than the first time. Without their pila the full brunt of it was met by the soldiers. Another Northlander came at the Legatus, this time though the man was well-armored. Fur mantle with chainmail and iron helm with a nose guard. Looked to be a Heruski noble. His great-axe came down in splitting downward cut. In an instant he felt the sudden blow upon his shield. The force of it almost knocked the shield from his grip, made him lose his balance. He was forced back into the soldier behind him, but fortunately that man held his feet. Keeping his shield pressed into the back of his Legatus, he braced him and kept him upright axe-man brought his axe up again for another blow, but this time the Legatus made sure to bring his spatha into the man's belly, and up into his rib cage. The man was dead even before he hit the ground.

The Legatus then caught another tribesman that swung a rudimentary club at him; the object looking nothing more than a large branch taken from a tree. The Legatus way-layed this blow with his shield opening him up for a slash across his chest. Blood sprayed along his face. The red blinded him as the warm liquid flashed across his face. Squinting his eyes as best as he could, he tried ringing the blood out of his vision, but each time he opened to see there was nothing. Everything was a blur. He kept his shield up to better protect himself.

As he struggled, he could hear shouts and screams coming around him, but they were not of barbarian make. Panicked and frantic cries came from his own battle-hardened legionnaires and he hadn't the faintest clue why. Suddenly the ground beneath his foot shook rhythmically; like a heart-beat was reverberating within. Removing the shield from his view, he tried to put things into focus, but all he could make out were large dark shapes. At first he believed these to be men, but then a godless roar broke out and became clearer than every other sound. The earth shook harder, the air had just become putrid and disgusting to breathe, and as his vision finally cleared, he breath caught in his throat; the very alien feeling of fear seemed to chill him for a moment.

"Raarrrgh! Gwa-RAAAAAAAAWWWWWRRRRR!" came the bellowing shout of the beast twelve or so yards away.

There stinking and lumbering forward was a creature that had only reached the Britannians through myths and hear-say of the Northern realm. Its hide was covered in a light blue hide that seemed to be the composition of stone, its shoulders covered in patches of green moss and fungus. It had a long face and a drooping mouth, its nose was flattened and its large, opal eyes were black and dim and cold. Salver built up around its mouth and dropped in globules on the club it carried, a tree trunk that was simply given to it as a weapon, but it was only for show. It's fists were clubs in of themselves, able to rip a man with ease if it so wished. The Britannians faltered a little at seeing this - a Trogladytorum, "troll" - walking slowly towards them. A river troll by the looks. And behind it, the Legatus could see more of its ilk being brought up.

_Shit, _he cursed. "Men of Britannia! Why do you falter!? Hold your ground - Steady!" He called to his men.

But that was in vain.

"Gwarjh!"

The troll closed the distance surprisingly fast, it's small legs possessing an amazing agility at short distances. With a swift swing of its club, it cleared away four legionaries, swiping them aside as if they were mere toys.

"Close the ranks! Ad stratum linge!"

The Britannian front faltered as the troll kept its onslaught going, more of its kin following behind it. Some carried clubs, others rudimentary spears, and another had a pair of gauntlets studded with stone and metal. It's fist collided with a Britannian legionnaire and immediately turned the man's face into a bloody mess. Another troll simply picked up a legionnaire and bit his head off. It was the most terrible sounding scream the Legatus had ever heard, and he knew that his center was close to breaking at this instant. The cohort's heart was breaking, and only a little push was all it needed to send his line falling back. The Legatus hurriedly tried to get the men to hold fast, but his attention soon was diverted to his left. While he was pushed back, the centurion that was standing next to him stayed forward battling a troll single handedly. Underneath on of its feet lay one half of the dead signifer of the legion, and the other half lay to his side. He was protecting the Eagle, who's gold shine most liekly attracted the beast over to him. Instead of abandonning the standard, the signifer held on, and for his loyalty was pulled apart. The centurion vainly tried to stab at the beast, but his gladius was parried away by crude, square shield.

The Legatus knew what he needed to do. He would not allow for the troll to use the standard as its own plaything. The men needed to find moral, and so the Legatus rushed headlong towards the beast, a warcry emitting from his lips that shook the area around him. He didn't care if the men followed him or not. Alls that he needed was for them to see, to take notice of the courage being shown by their centurion they wished to abandon; by their general who charged the troll head on. The Legatus dashed forward and with his spatha's longer reach swiped at the beast's jaw. Here the skin wasn't so tough that it could be broken, and the slash cut into deeply. The troll roared with fright and pain. reeling back, the Legatus and the centurion pressed their advantage. Both had their gladii stabbing into the beast's belly making it wince and turn, trying to get away. The Legatus had no knowledge of the world around him, had no care of it at all. His focus was singled in on bringing down the troll, but as he dug his sword deep into the troll's chest, suddenly a booming feeling of pain entered his mind.

He didn't know what happened first: him hitting the ground, or the roar of anger that emitted from the troll when he came to. Alls he knew was that as he tried to get up, a sharp pain emitted from his left arm. Looking over to it he saw that his shield had been utterly splintered. Some pieces of wood had found their way into his arm which lay broken, limp, and useless to his side. He was at the mercy of the troll when it bore down on him and planted a foot on his chest. It grunted at the effort and the Legatus coughed up blood as the troll's weight bore down on him.

He could feel his insides threatening to push out from him, his face was turning a bright red, and the blood rushing there, but he still stubbornly struggled with his right arm. He clawed and tried to push the troll off, but it was no use. The slow creature was becoming more perturbed at this show.

The Legatus screamed out as more weight was pressed down onto his chest, his cuirass cracking and bending by such force. All around him he could see the Britannian line buckling under the weight of the Northlanders. After the trolls did their job, they pressed home their advantage. The legion was hacked down, their broken ranks allowing for the Northlanders to cut them down with ease. The Northlander giant, whom now was covered head to toe in the blood of his enemies, cleaved one legionaries' skull with ease; the broken sword smashing through the helmet. The Legatus could sense that the Northlander knew his victory was close at hand.

Alls he needed was to drive the wedge between the Britannian center and force everything into chaos, chaos and madness.

Everything seemed lost. He. He was to die here on this field. There was no questions about it now. As the weight pressed down and he was taking his last gasps, he turned his head. There in a dead heap, with a blank stare that struck him deeply, was the young and loyal centurion that fought with him to defend the Eagle. The man was undoubtedly dead as the wound to the side of his face was large and gaping. Still, the whites of his eyes looked at the Legatus pleadingly, hopefully. They were accusing him of cowardice in the face of death, calling into question his pride. This man - whom the Legatus had not a name for even now - was incensed that this man would call into question his prowess even from death.

No! The Legatus made it know he was not going to die here, not going to have himself be squashed like some insect.

Looking at the troll's blank, black eyes, the Legatus struggled to push his will into the beast's mind, struggled to enact the power he had been given before the battle. The pain was great and all he did was shout. He shouted so loud the troll was taken aback, and so that all manner of men could hear it as it rumbled through the battlefield. No doubt reached the heavens themselves, waking whatever gods that aboded there to witness what was happening.

His eyes began to bleed and his mind was racing faster than he could ever imagine; images of the past, present, and future molding into one; creating a vision of what will come to pass. And then, even though his throat began to clog with blood, his lungs gasped for air and the weight of the troll pressed on him; he knew he wasn't going to die. Not today. Not ever. The curse was upon him now - the Geass of power finally showing itself.

After that everything began to blur. The Legatus couldn't quite tell what happened after as he was struggling to maintain consciousness. For one, the weight of troll lifted itself up off his chest. Next, the sound of galloping hooves and the blaring of Britannian trumpets were heard. They were being led by a feminine figure at their front, her silver cuirass and striped plume standing out like the Goddess Fortuna herself. Suddenly the flash of legionaries pressing forward was seen, the retreating figures of the Northlanders and their trolls crowding his view. He wondered if this were victory.

But the world was becoming clouded in a vision of white and warmth. He lie there, moments away from what felt like death, and heard cry of his name hit his ears faintly so. At first it seemed to be a whisper, but soon he heard a number of voices chiming in. One was Flavius. The other Bismark's. Then came another, so sweet and soothing that the Legatus nearly shed a tear of joy when he heard it say his name.

"Charles", it whispered.

That was the last thing he heard.

* * *

><p>Pain. Pain and warmth were the only he felt when he awoke in his tent. That, and the disgusting smell of scented candles, was what greeted Charles as struggled to grasp his bearings. At first he thought this to be nothing more than a glimpse of death. The dim lighting doing nothing to assuage his fear, but of course if he were dead then the pain wouldn't be so damning unless he was in Hel. That would be very disappointing to him. As he looked around, Charles noticed that standing over him to his right was a hooded figure of a child. He stood in the darkness away from the light, Charles at once recognized him for who he was. Valerius Vitalis. His older brother. Never thought he would be the first person he would see when he awoke. Maybe he was in Hel.<p>

"Welcome back from the dead, brother." The boy said lifting his scarlet hood to reveal a smug smirk adorning his face. Charles wondered if Valerius Vitalis was truly as welcoming about his health as he said he was.

Getting up from his spot next to the bed, Valerius moved over to a stand helped himself to the wine that was placed there. There was only one cup, and he offered it first to Charles, but Charles merely shook his head weakly. Valerius shrugged his shoulders indifferently and poured himself a helping of the nice autumn red from the Southern vineyards.

"Ah! Very good this. 'Been a while since I had strong wine." Valerius said, taking another sip.

"What happened?" Charles said. His voice came out hoarse and tired, like it hadn't been used for days. His throat was also dry. Perhaps he should've taken the wine when his brother offered, but Valerius made no further attempt, and CHarles was too weak to insist.

"What happened-", Valerius began before taking a downing gulp, "was that you won. Barely. But you won."

Charles struggled to get up form the bed, but he winced in pain. He looked down to see his chest bandaged thickly, with two wooden splints he could feel on either side of his chest.

"Don't bother moving. Every damn near rib in your body was broken when that troll stepped on you. The medicus told me that it'd take months before you heal."

"How long was I out?" Charles sighed with disgust.

"Nearly two days. First night within hours of you being declared close to death though, a number of riders were seen leaving the camp. No doubt to tell our family back in Pendragon of your supposed fall."

Charles cringed at the news. Two days? Two whole days for his enemies to better prepare themselves. Of course they would be making sure to entrench themselves around Britannian throne as best as possible - or on it. All to better safeguard themselves if Charles were to make a miraculous recovery, and surely there were still spies in the army who stayed behind to report on Charles's condition.

"Two days...We need to move." Charles said as he struggled to lift himself off the bed, but to no use. He fell back down in a fit of stinging pain.

"It's pointless now, they've already left and have a good lead on us. There's no way we'd be able to catch them," Valerius said as he walked back over to where the wine was, "but for now let us relax and drink to the gods."

"Gods? What gods? No gods looked over us. My men died alone on this field. There were no gods watching over them, and here they will stay forever." Charles said as memories of the battle rushed back to his mind. That was some tough fighting. Charles never thought he would've been so close to death. He'd always been so strong that he thought death in battle was beneath him, but the run-in with the troll changed that.

Valerius shook his head though, "You may think the gods are all-powerful, Charles, but even they have their limits."

He poured himself another glass of wine and walked over to a marble bust of their late father. The man's features were as prominent here as they were in life. The stern visage that was passed down to Charles was evident her, but even Valerius had a bit of his father as well, especially with sharp, pointed nose they shared.

"The gods work within a natural order. Though they are credited in making Man in their image, yet we take on the looks of our parents. They cannot make a child look anymore different than the person that begat them, or make it rain in a desert, or stop soldier's from dying in a battle. It is only natural. Everything works within a series of limits, Charles. Check and balances. If it didn't then there will be chaos."

"Then what's the purpose of these "gods" then anyway?"

"Well, now, that's a question isn't it." Valerius moved from the bust of their father, and then made his way over to the world-map that was placed at the far end of the tent.

It showed the world of Anima in full. On one side to the right, the continent and lands of Men: Dynion. Britannia and its kingdom ruled over the vast majority of the continent laying claim to its interior, middle, and pushing all the way to the borders of the North. Here the number of roads - known as the Frost Way - twist and turn through a range of mountains called the Dragon's Teeth. Following through the Frost Way, then they would come across green valleys and forests nestled within the confines of the mountains; pockets home to a number of the more prominent Northlander tribes. But the only kingdom of great import, and the one by which all northern tribesmen are denoted - either through ignorance or arrogance - is Northland. Another pocket of somewhat interest in the North is a small kingdom known as Gallia; a small and insignificant kingdom, located at the far northwestern edge of Dynion. It is a client state of Britannia

Dynion's southern half, though, was a far more different and untamed beast. Where in the north Britannia was able to find success in its conquests, here the lands and its peoples proved to be quite stubborn. On the great Southern Peninsula, the countries that assembled there don't fashion themselves in the manner of kingdoms, but of city-states. The people of this land fear the tyranny of a single person so much that they actually divide the rules of leaders into terms. In some places it is four years, others two, and another said to have a ruler voted in every other month. Democracy and general assemblies are what keep the ruling classes here in check, and also the ever-looking eyes of the people lead. Fiercely independent and stubborn to the bone, they are much like the Northlanders, but where the northern men of Dynion lack any sort of cohesion, the southerners were well-organized. Powerful phalanx armies and capable generals, honed through years of constant warfare between the city-states, have made attempts at subjugating them more than a little problematic. The Southern Peninsula supports the states of: Toro, Athenia, Orlando, Espatha, Kruzon and the islands of Punica to the southwest. Also, the kingdom Pergrande (the sole kingdom on the peninsula), Isenberg, Bellum, Seven, and Fiore are part of another, smaller peninsula, located just south of the other city-states.

The south was also a terrible breeding ground for pirates. With its many rivers, inlets, and waterways it offers ample reason for a man to ply his trade in piracy. They follow the water current called the Grand Line - a series of winds and waves that flow on Dynion's coast, raiding, looting, and searching for opportunity wherever it might be had. They were always a thorn in Britannia's side, but the many punitive attempts at trying to heel this uncouth lot proved too troublesome and costly for what it was worth. Valerius and Charles's father tried ridding himself of the pirate's raids that came from the south, only for his treasury - and his popularity - to be dragged down to the depths, along with with the ships he built for the glorious Britannian navy. It was a fruitless endeavor. Britannians never much favored ship-building or were they any good at it. If they wanted fish, they had the rivers and lakes; if they wanted trade, then there were roads to take them wherever they willed. No, Britannia had no need for a "navy" per say, as they would much prefer settling problems on land, where a man's feet were steady and the fear of drowning wasn't a concern. The call of the ocean wasn't in them.

It showed. On the western side of the map - in far less preciseness - lay the "continent" of Aird. Really just a blob as far as Valerius could attest. The mapmaker's laziness got the best of him here no doubt, already reconciling with the idea that whatever marks he made on Aird would be dubious at best; the precise locations of its cites and nations a mystery. Better to be innocently ignorant about places, than vaguely stupid in the end.

Aird was a land equal to Dynion in both size and scope. Here, a kingdom known as Xian was said to be the greatest. Xian, unlike Britannia, covered the entirety of Aird. Many of the kingdoms around it either paid fealty or were in some way relegated by Xian, all save for one.

Located due east of Aird - almost towards the center of Oceanus - was a crescent shaped archipelago of islands known as Asahi-Ndor. Unlike Xian which was undoubtedly one kingdom, Asahi-Ndor was noted to be a fractious place. The four large islands that comprise the place is filled with warring states and home to monsters, demons and other amazing creatures such as: foxes with nine tails, bulls that live in water, and giant snakes to name a few. Of course, these accounts were only told by seamen who claimed to have been shipwrecked on the islands, and who were cared for the locals that live there. Yet their stories are as far-fetched as they are drunk when they speak of them.

The only thing that is most certain about Aird was the race of peoples that dwell there. Almost as mysterious as Aird itself, the Britannians call this race collectively as Nymphidae - "enlightened" ones. However, this was not a term of endearment. It could also mean "small flying insect" as well. The Nymphidae are said to are one of the oldest races on Anima; the line of their people stretching before the time of the Great Sleep all the way back to the beginning of creation. Many famous stories are told of their skills. Abilities such as: being able to walk on water, summoning animals out of thin air, and controlling the elements are some of the more fantastical ones. But these facts aren't so much truth as they are speculation, brought on by ignorant myths and drunken seafarers.

The Nymphs in Xian call themselves the Xianmor, in Asahi the Taiyonar, but in Brittannia "nymphs" was just fine. As far different to Men as birds are to fish, the nymphs were said to be of like appearance save they were: tall, pointy eared, were wise to the point of arrogance, and possessed the manhoods of babies. They are a long-lived race and are said to linger on like trees in winter, where as men rose and fell like the leaves upon that tree in Fall.

Everything a man was, a nymph wasn't. Where a man was passionate and curious of the world; nymphs were cold, distant, and respectful to Anima's natural order. They believed in working with the world in order to build for tomorrow, but there tomorrows could take years to get to. Men did not have the luxury of longevity, and so his was a world of do's and do-overs, failures and successes, until his work was finished. Past and present worked in close proximity to one another, and though he blunders his deeds were passed on to his successors - his children that would outlast him.

Well, no matter. For a race where much can be said, there was nary any contact between Dynion and Aird to corroborate what was fact or fiction. Sure, some merchants from the South may have contact every now and then, traveling west whenever Xian opens its ports, but even that is speculation. The Nymphidae have made it clear that there preoccupation was solely on their part of the world. Britannians had always thought of this reclusiveness as arrogance, but what have you? If the Nymphs wished to stay apart then that was fine. The feeling might go both-ways as well.

'What are you thinking about?" Charles inquired to his brother.

Valerius was broken out of his reverie.

"It's a big world." Valerius pointed out innocently, indifferently, as if his mind didn't go elsewhere.

"Yes, and Britannia is a small part of it." Charles said.

Valerius arched his eyebrow up and questioned, "Really? Small?"

"Aye," Charles nodded feebly. He tried motioning to set himself up, but the pain was apparent in his face.

"You're not going to get better by straining yourself."

"I'm not going to get better before I tell you this, Valerius. During the battle - when I used the Geass - there was a vision." Charles struggled at saying the words, wondering if what he was saying was anything close to the truth, or simply manifestations of a mind that was close to death.

"A vision?"

"Aye." Charles pointed back to where the map was. "Everything that was, is, and will be was shown to me. Brother, I am not meant to be king

At that Valerius became alarmed. He knew of the first sight that users of the Geas were prone to feel, that they were to see glimpses of their future. Charles not to be king? Did he see his own death? Was it tonight?

"No!" Valerius stated, his scarlet eyes flashing with a fire that he was rarely prone to show.

"No, Charles, you can't die - you mustn't die. The contract, our contract, you still have your part to own up to, Charles." Valerius was becoming more excited,

Charles chuckled at seeing his elder brother become so emotional in front of him. Now he looked every part the child that he looked. It was nostalgic in way, taking Charles back to the times when he but a boy himself. Chuckling weakly, Charles rested back down on his pillow.

"There is going to be a slight change to our contract." Charles said.

"Change? What change?" Valerius asked his brother curiously.

"I will not be Britannia's king, but I will be her Emperor." A small smile graced his lips when Charles said that, and Valerius at once looked relieved - confused - but relieved. Standing back and thinking about Charles had just said, at first the look he gave him was one of disbelief.

"Emperor?...Hm?" Valerius pondered as he mulled what his brother said. "Emperor Charolus Antipater Zimo Britannia. Not a bad ring to it actually."

Valerius drained the last bit of wine and nodded his head to the map. "Building an empire will take time, time and blood."

"I don't care. Eowyn built a kingdom, but I will forge an empire. It is my destiny..." Even in his weakened state, CHarles looked no less fearsome than when he was out playing soldier. Valerius took heart in this. _Good_, he thought.

"It is necessary for the strong to rule the weak." said Charles.

"And you are the strongest, aren't you?" Valerius became amused at the force which Charles said this. Indeed he was a man of strong conviction, perhaps strong enough conviction to pull through with his dream of empire. Before Valerius could ask where Charles's empire planned to put into motion his burgeoning empire would be, a voice called out from outside.

"He's up! He's up!" came the frantic cry.

The curtains of the tent were thrown open and the disheveled figure of the Lady Marianne stepped through. She was followed in by Flavius who walked in with the help of a crutch. The old general was smarting a wound on his right thigh and looked to struggle moving. Marianne as well had her nose bandaged and a bruised left cheek. Regardless, they both looked relieved to see their general alive and awake in the comfort of his bed.

"You gods-damned bastard" Flavius said as soon as he saw Charles.

Charles smiled a little at seeing the old man still keep a semblance of normalcy in spite of how he looked.

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

"Charles! You're...You're-" Marianne's words were getting caught in her throat. She struggled to contain herself at seeing the man she loved in such a state: pale-faced, bandaged, and bruised. The sight nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Flavius in the other hand smiled and shook his head in silent thanks. Two days ago he thought the man dead, surely and truly. Nothing was going

"Alive," Valerius interjected "All thanks to you, my dear."

Valerius walked over to where Flavius and Marianne stood. Flavius still was adorned in his armor, while Mariance had since discarded hers wearing a simple brown tunic and leather breeches. They accentuated her form perfectly and Valerius could see why Charles would steal glances at her every now and then.

"As a priest of Eowyn I bless you Lady Marianne, but as a grateful brother I thank you even more." Valerius said clasping her hands.

"I-I was merely doing my duty, Pontifex." She replied. A blush was creeping on her face at such words of praise from the Pontifex of Eowyn Priesthood

"Even still your cavalry charge was a masterful display of your skill, and well-timed too; the nickname "Flash" suits you quite well. You no doubt saved my little brother's life."

"She did not save my lif -Argh!" Charles called out from his bed. Even while he was broken an infirm Charles still didn't like it when his pride was at stake. He tried propping himself up on his elbows, but that did nothing but exacerbate the pain of his broken ribs. Marianne immediately ran to his side, leaving Valerius along by the entrance with the grizzled Flavius.

"And you too, Flavius. A legatus couldn't ask for a more staunch ally. A man of your bravery and experience deserves a suitable reward." Valerius mentioned to Flavius, to which Flavius merely waved the gesture off.

"It would be waisted on me, Pontifex. A soldier my age doesn't need rewards after battle to feel good. All my heart wants - all it desires - is to return home and stay home."

Valerius nodded his head in understanding. "And so you shall," Valerius patted Flavius on the right shoulder where he was nursing his hip. Flavius winced a little in pain, but Valerius paid that no mind. Turning to head out of the tent, Valerius felt himself growing tired as well. All sense of normalcy was gone now. They were no longer the two little boys who were at the mercy of their family, of their enemies, of the cruel world which crowded in on them. Now they were men grown. For Charles it was literally, but Valerius himself had to grow up as well. His path was different than his brother's but it was no less taxing, and the contract that they made so long ago - which back then seemed like a fit of childlike fancy - took another step closer of being fulfilled.

Turning his back on the trio to leave, he made one last glance to see Marianne doting on Charles who was telling her not to treat him like some child. Her innocent looking face and that sweet heart she had made her a most interesting sort of affection for his little brother. Valerius did have his qualms about her, but so long as Charles kept his focus int he task at hand, then having one more woman to warm his bed would be no issue

"_Best save up your strength, brother._ Valerius though before heading off into the night, _Tomorrow we have much work to do._

With that Valerius left into the night which was dark and foreboding, but in it was hope of a morning sun. Charles and he would do well to capture that sun and alight the world with their dream. A contract needs be honored, a debt paid, and an Empire shall be had.


End file.
